


Interagency Cooperation

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Marvel (Comics), Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-03
Updated: 2007-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title: Interagency Cooperation</p><p>Fandom: Torchwood/Marvel crossover<br/>Characters: Nick Fury, Superspy *g* and Captain Jack Harkness, alien-fighting badass. With a brief appearance by Ianto Jones, coffee god. <br/>Spoilers: The story is situated between the events at the end of “Captain Jack Harkness” and the beginning of “End of Days.” So, both episodes are alluded to.<br/>Warnings: Bad language, not quite bordering on excessive. But Nick gets a little foul-mouthed when he’s being attacked by a temporally-displaced warlord and a prehistoric pachyderm.<br/>Disclaimer: I own nothing. The Superspy belongs to Marvel comics and Jack and Ianto belong to BBC. I just borrowed them, tossed them all into a room together, and left them alone to see who comes out alive.<br/>Word count: 861<br/>Summary: Just further proof that SHIELD sucks at interagency collaboration.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Interagency Cooperation

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Interagency Cooperation
> 
> Fandom: Torchwood/Marvel crossover  
> Characters: Nick Fury, Superspy *g* and Captain Jack Harkness, alien-fighting badass. With a brief appearance by Ianto Jones, coffee god.   
> Spoilers: The story is situated between the events at the end of “Captain Jack Harkness” and the beginning of “End of Days.” So, both episodes are alluded to.  
> Warnings: Bad language, not quite bordering on excessive. But Nick gets a little foul-mouthed when he’s being attacked by a temporally-displaced warlord and a prehistoric pachyderm.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. The Superspy belongs to Marvel comics and Jack and Ianto belong to BBC. I just borrowed them, tossed them all into a room together, and left them alone to see who comes out alive.  
> Word count: 861  
> Summary: Just further proof that SHIELD sucks at interagency collaboration.

Nick Fury knows all about weird. Most of the time, he’s damn near comfortable immersed in all sorts of the odd and unusual. You work in SHIELD long enough, you get a real flexible definition of normal that comes to include people that can burst into flame on cue, fly, and more or less rise from the fucking dead. Aliens? Yeah, he can even more or less file those away under “All in a day’s work” anymore. 

But nowhere in his ever expanding position description does it mention dealing with rampaging Mongolian warriors from the 12th Century. That, he decides as he watches yet another agent get flung into a line of his gun-toting colleagues, is out of his jurisdiction by about nine centuries. 

Nick peeks his head out from behind the security console, a hand held over the phone receiver. “Will somebody shoot the bastard already? We don’t train you to fire those guns for our health. And where the hell’s the backup!”

“Dealing with a stampeding Mastadon on the tenth floor, Colonel,” a voice says in his ear piece. “That’s not a joke.”

Nick just shakes his head. “Whole damn world’s gone fucking nuts.”

He’s been on hold with the Department of Homeland Security ten minutes when a wavering-voiced bureaucrat cuts into a second verse-same as the first repeat of Blue Danube. “About goddamned time!” Nick barks into the phone without the cigar wedged between his teeth faltering an inch. “Somebody tell me how the hell I’m getting Genghis fucking Khan out of my goddamned building!” 

After a few seconds of silence on Nick’s end of the line, the eyebrow over the director’s good eye arches into his hairline. “You want me to call Torch-what?”

**

The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning, not since space ships started hovering over India and musket-brandishing soldiers stumbled into downtown London. Open a little rift, accidentally fracturing the fabric of time, and suddenly everyone expects you to be able to fix it. Of course, since it was likely Torchwood’s fault…

Damn you, Owen.

By the time a sympathetic Ianto Jones is setting a cup of coffee on his desk, Jack Harkness – Captain Jack to his staff and a few far flung friends – has fielded calls from most of the Western Hemisphere. The Eastern half got into the act too as of an hour ago. Torchwood’s secure, unlisted number is suddenly the most popular set of digits in Cardiff, if not all of Wales. 

When the phone on the corner of his desk rings again, Jack almost reaches for his gun. There are only so many times and so many ways to say “We’re working on it,” before a man’s ready to put himself out of his misery. Not that, in his case, it would work, but it’s a damn tempting notion.

“What’s the diplomatic version of ‘No comment,’ Ianto?”

“I don’t think there is one, Sir,” the solemn-faced assistant says from his computer station.

“Gwen and Owen?”

“En route.” 

“The world?”

“Hell in a handbasket, Sir.” After a second’s pause, the Welshman adds, “You might want to answer that, Jack. It’s an American extension. Could be the President again.”

Jack grumbled under his breath but reaches for the receiver. He gets as far as “This is…” before a gruff, no nonsense voice on the other end cuts him off.

“Director Fury, SHIELD. Who’m I talking to?”

Jack rubbed at a tense spot on the back of his neck and wondered how long he’d have to stare at Ianto with the patented Harkness puppy eyes before the Welshman offered him a neck rub. “Jack Harkness, Director Fury. What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me what the hell’s going on, that’s what you can do for me.” Jack hears gunshots in the background and guttural shouts in a vaguely Asian tongue. A few of the shots are fired close to the phone and he has to pull the receiver away from his ear. “I’ve got a Mongolian overlord throwing my crew around like rag dolls and a Mastadon tearing my Research and Development Division to shreds. And for some reason, everybody says you’re the people to call to fix it.”

“We’re working on it, Director. Right now we’re collecting data about the phenomenon so that we can…”

“Can it, Mr. Torchwood,” the voice says in a tone that was unused to being denied. Every word gets punctuated by another gun shot. “Don’t want to hear about data collecting and bean counting, I want to hear how you plan on getting rid of them.”

Several variations of “I’ll tell you where to stick that Mastadon,” pop into Jack’s head, but he manages to bite them back. “We’re working on it,” he says and hangs up the phone. Standing, he reaches for the mug Ianto left on his desk and pokes his head out his office door. “If that number calls again, tell them Mastadon is a delicacy in Mongolia and he should find a way to introduce his two guests.”

“Yes Sir.”

“And Ianto?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“When Owen gets here, do me a favor and shoot him again.”

The Welshman smiles. “Yes, Sir.”


End file.
